


Altschmerz

by redheadandslytherin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Maedhros Does Not Jump, Men Crying, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, and by men I mean elves, but still isn't happy because of reasons, introducing Finrod the Hair Care Nerd, the feanorians not being assholes to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadandslytherin/pseuds/redheadandslytherin
Summary: Altschmerz, noun. - weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years, which leaves them soggy and tasteless and inert, with nothing interesting left to think about, nothing left to do but spit them out and wander off to the backyard, ready to dig up some fresher pain you might have buried long agoIt can never not be painful.Written for Feanorianweek 2017, with no specific day in mind.





	

The only thing he remembered about those last few days was the scorching, unforgiving heat of the sun that burned his wounds and hurt his eyes and made the parched dryness of his mouth even more unbearable. He has long since lost feeling in his right arm; at first, he tried to find something to ease the weight, some bump in the rock to rest his feet on, something to grab with his other hand. Then he tried freeing his right, thinking that even the long fall to the bottom of the cliff, even death would be release. But the steel held strong and tight, and after countless hours of trying, he gave up.

After he was left there, hanging from the mountainside, some orcs would come out at times, taunting him and throwing rocks in his general direction – however, he was too high up for them to ever hit him.

How long does it take for thirst and hunger to finally take an elf, he wondered. Certainly too long to bear, as he had lost count of the times the sun rose. The cool light of the moon did not help either, for the nights of Thangorodrim where chilly. So he burned during the day and shivered with cold in the night. He must be burning with a fever, he thought as he slowly drifted out of consciousness, for he heard a familiar voice calling out to him. How cruel a fate, not only to suffer from pain of the body, but also from the painfully sweet memories of his past! For he would have recognised that voice anywhere, even in his sleep. He smiled weakly, feeling the tattered skin on his lips tear at the effort, as a wistful song reached his ears. He gathered up the strength to answer, the sounds coming out rusty and cracking with disuse. Maybe this was the last mercy of the Valar, he mused, to pass into the Halls to the soft voice of his dear Findekáno.

He pleaded for death; they told him after, when his mind was clear enough to comprehend words. He pleaded and Findekáno would have granted it, if not for the eagle coming for their aid. Yes, the rescue still cost him his hand, but Curufinwë was already engrossed in plans and calculations for a functional prosthetic. No, don’t move too much, you’ll cause more harm to your shoulders, the healers and his brothers told him. If here were a Man, they would have had to amputate his arm from the shoulder, the chief healer explained once. It was only thanks to his elven blood and elven healing magic that his arm could be salvaged, and even then, he would probably live with a limited range of movements. Still better than having no arm at all, he thought sourly, but obediently tried to stay still. But even the softest silk bedding was painful to lie on as his wounds slowly begun to heal and scabs begun to form. His sunburnt skin was beginning to flake off, and he amused himself by picking up dead bits of skin, sometimes scratching at particularly stubborn bits, until Tyelkormo caught him doing it, and pointedly slathered his sensitive skin with a healing balm before proceeding to cut his nails short, successfully thwarting his efforts to get rid of the itchy skin faster. “You’ll get even more scars if you pick at your skin, Nelyo,” Tyelkormo had said after he started grumbling at him about it.

They all tried to spend time with him, his brothers and Findekáno. Even Findaráto came by a few times, bringing an assortment of oils and balms, settling down on his bed next to him with several brushes and combs to try and untangle his hair. He still ended up having to cut a good length of it, but the rest he washed carefully with his nice-smelling oils and dried with a soft towel. He was checking to see if the two sides were of equal length when Findekáno and Makalaurë entered, carrying their harps with them. “If we glued the cut parts to your chin, you’d look like grandfather Mahtan with that haircut, my dear Maitimo,” Makalaurë said with a small smile. Findekáno watched him thoughtfully for a moment before nodding his consent, a cheerful smile on his face. Findaráto chuckled next to him and despite himself, Maitimo laughed weakly, too.  Makalaurë and Findekáno settled on the soft furs on the floor next to his bed and started playing an old travel song, while Findaráto carefully swept the cut hair from his shoulders, gathering it all in a towel, before placing it aside with his supplies. Maitimo fell asleep to the sound of his brother and cousins singing about a home long lost.

The twins bought him fresh fruit they picked in the forest. First, when he was too weak to sick to handle solid foods, they would cut and squeeze the fruit out and give him the juice to drink, but as he grew stronger, they started serving him with plates heaped with colourful berries, sometimes organised to form pictures. He smiled at these and asked what they were and listened to the twins making up stories about the scene depicted while he ate. His favourite was the one about the time they were chased from the forest by a flock of birds they disturbed, because it made the twins squeal with laughter every time it was mentioned.

Curufinwë visited, bringing rolls of parchment with him, showing the designs of the prosthetic hand he was crafting. Every visit he would have something new, eventually starting to bring leather harnesses, half-formed metal fingers and sets of small cogs to show. They discussed the designs and inner workings of the hand like they used to discuss their projects in the forge back in Aman, and sometimes, for the briefest moment, Maitimo felt like the hand was just a project they did for fun, not out of necessity.

A dark, stormy night found Tyelkormo and Huan at his side, telling stories about hunting and exploring new woods. It was cold, and Maitimo shivered in spite of the fire burning in the hearth just on the other side of the room. He pulled his blankets tighter around himself as he listened to his brother talk, but the chill refused to go away. Without missing a beat in his story, Tyelkormo undid the clasp on his cloak and draped the thick wool over Maitimo’s shoulders, shrugging apologetically when Maitimo commented on the dog hair stuck to it. However, the cloak never found its way back to Tyelkormo as Maitimo refused to part with it.

Makalaurë and Findekáno usually came together, most often bringing some instrument and amusing him with bawdy songs they learned from their men. They would also teach him the language of the Sindar, and bring him parchment and quills to practice writing with his left. Every now and then, Findaráto would come with them, bringing his fancy hair products to give him what they started to call a hair experience worthy of kings. Maitimo couldn’t help but laugh as Findaráto explained what each little vial of oil and balm was for in an over-exaggerated accent highly reminiscent of one of their old teachers who was always ranting about the different uses of herbs. But eventually, both Makalaurë and Findaráto would leave, and Findekáno would stay with him, sometimes falling asleep with his head pillowed on Maitimo’s left shoulder.

Carnistir, hearing from Tyelkormo about his tendency to feel cold more often, knitted him scarves from the softest yarn he could find. The two of them often sat together in the evenings, Maitimo practicing his writing, Carnistir either knitting or embroidering something. They rarely spoke, and the silent companionship was more soothing than any herbal brew the healers ever gave him. In a short while, he had a collection of soft scarves and knitted blankets, all of which were dear to his heart.

But as he finally felt healed enough to return to his duties, his brothers slowly started to leave, each returning to their own lands, but promising to return as often as they could. Findaráto had long since departed and even Findekáno had to leave eventually, even if they both tried to prolong his stay as long as they could. Makalaurë was the only one who never strayed far, even after everything started to go wrong, even after the bloodiest of battles and the loss of family.

And now, the burn of the Silmaril in his hand reminded him of the scorching heat of the sun back on Thangorodrim. He fell to his knees on the edge of a chasm, staring down into the molten rock. He could faintly hear the pained cries of Makalaurë behind him, and for a fleeting moment he thought they were the drinking songs from all those years ago. Around his throat, a soft knitted scarf was keeping the cold away, his cloak fastened with the clasp of Tyelkormo’s thick wool cloak he had worn to shreds. His hair, carefully combed and braided, like Findaráto had always done, was tied off with one of Findekáno’s golden ribbons. The Silmaril had melted some parts of his prosthetic hand, and he found himself muttering apologies to Curufinwë. Then he thought of Eönwë and how the feathers the Maia wore in his head reminded him of the birds from Ambarussa’s story.

Maitimo hurled to Silmaril down into the chasm, screaming curses after it for taking his brothers and cousins away. He was prepared to crawl closer to the chasm and just let himself drop into it, when Makalaurë fell to his knees next to him, dropping his own Silmaril into the chasm too, his face streaked with tears.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. But at last, something in Maitimo broke and he threw himself at his brother, sobbing, both from the painful burns and from the overwhelming sense of loss. Makalaurë wrapped his arms around him just as tightly, and the last remaining sons of Fëanor wept, for they had nothing but each other now.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to use the mother-names of all these folks because thinking with Maedhros' head, I would refer to them by those names, even if the language itself was banned.
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr! I'm Silm trash. Also lonely.


End file.
